Sadly, the little letters had tea. L, you see, had gone missing. I was seven fingers, but we didn’t have a palm. Back in the elevens, when the sun began to transmit little cartoons and recipes for transcutaneous nectars, I was my own sister. I cannot explain breasts, or the cause of mathematics, but several uncooperative erections later, the sound of thunder having itself on was truly a glorious retreat from refrigeration metaphors and technologies having to do with letters, tea, the number 11, L, and a covert refuge arrangement contagiously conveyed via an understructure in prose. You can have a catalyst, or you can have a list of cattle. I find that the specific indentations in shirts transmit a poetic lumin, the magic lost in the flatulence of firemen. Oh, yeah. The fingers. Well, we didn’t crawl. We felt that wouldn’t be seemly. We haven’t moved yet. That’s why we are making so much of so very little. I am a transmission from when a toad named ampule had to go to the laboratory to redefine the fine structure constant. We were never seen again. Then again, we were never seen at all.